


men; islands

by pressforward



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:39:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4483163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pressforward/pseuds/pressforward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herc and Stacker at the end of the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	men; islands

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [desolatesandwich](http://desolatesandwich.tumblr.com) for looking this over and combing out unnecessary bits.

2024, Hong Kong, lists of necessities and demands and an ever-shrinking budget.

The marshal is in his office, large but inconvenient, with the two wading pools near the entrance. It might be someone's idea of a joke. The turtle that had appeared in its depths a few days ago certainly was. He had it returned to the triplets, along with a note suggesting they find a more conventional tank. He did not sign his name.

He does sign it, reluctantly, on the order to halve J-tech, and utterly gut K-sci. He would prefer a buffer between the historically contentious heads of the Hong Kong K-sci department--soon to be the only K-sci department--but there is an eight month deadline and one last shot; he cannot afford to spend recklessly. He exhales hard and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can barely afford to scrimp. 

Someone knocks at the door. He drops his hand, lifts his head.

"Come in," he says, but the door has already creaked open.

“Christ, Stacks, sometimes I think it’s the suit holding you up and not the other way around.”

"That's 'Marshal' to you, Ranger." He files the paper and levels a steely gaze at the elder Hansen.

Herc only sets down two mugs and sits, grinning exhausted and fond.

“Yes sir, Marshal, whatever you say, sir,” he drawls, then pulls the latest forms towards him and pushes one mug towards Stacker. “C’mon, take a quick breather. Can’t hurt.”

Stacker considers him, considers taking the forms back, then considers the coffee and sighs. He picks up the mug and inhales. “Did you strong-arm Mr. Choi again? You know that trick won’t work for long.”

Herc waves a hand vaguely. “Ah, him. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Stacker smiles into the mug, takes a drink. When he sets down the mug again, he is unsmiling but the lines about his eyes are less stern. “You’re a bad man, Ranger Hansen. Someone ought to report you someday.”

Herc laughs. “Haven’t you heard, mate?” he says, picking up his own mug and clunking it once against Stacker’s. “It’s the end of the world. Try to live a little.”

\--

“I’m worried about Mako,” he says, looking out the window. It’s a beautiful sunset. Almost worth the presence of the wading pools. When the light comes in right, it reflects off the twinned rectangular lenses of the water, fills the room with a warm shifting glow. It’s a good world. Worth saving.

Mako too. Mako is a good girl. Worth saving, once and again, and again and again, however many times she needs.

Herc rubs his hair, freshly cut, and sighs. “She’s a fighter, Stacker. Gipsy’s _her_ project, she should at least get a shot at being her pilot.”

Stacker slides him a glance over his shoulder, looks back out the window. Less a window than an open doorway, right out into the ocean.

“You really think it’s wise to keep a potential pilot out of the candidate pool? She’s _good_. She’d be a great pilot.”

He knows that. He knows all of it. She _is_ good and that’s the problem. He does not look to his right, in the direction of storage, in the direction of every piece of equipment he’s been able to pull from retirement. His old drivesuit is new again, better than new. He watches the ocean.

He has one last job to do.

“Herc,” he says. There’s a scuff behind him; Herc’s shoes against the floor, the slight shift of fabric as he stands to attention. Nervous habit. “Keep an eye on Mako for me, will you? When this is all over."

Herc makes a sound like he's been punched, like Stacker has punched him. Surprised, in spite of himself. Pained. He recovers quickly, though; always has, always will. Qualities of a top-notch pilot, a better survivor.

“ _Jesus_ , Stacks. _God_. What a goddamn thing to say.”

Stacker doesn't reply, continues staring out over the ocean as Herc moves towards him. He feels the light touch at his waist, the careful press of Herc's forehead against the back of his neck.

"What a _goddamn_ thing to say," Herc repeats softly.

Silence.

"You know I will. Why bother asking? And you’ll look after Chuck for me. If things… don’t work out."

The lifespan of Jaeger pilots is not typically a long one. Herc himself is an exception. The Kaidonovskys. The Weis. They’re all outliers here.

Stacker nods. Once. Definitive. Herc exhales against the back of his neck, turns his head slightly. "Of course," he says, amused. Stacker hopes it’s amusement. It must be. "Why even ask, right?"

“If you think Chuck will let you go alone, I think you’re in for a shock,” Stacker says. Herc sighs in response, but it comes out ragged at the edges.

“Yeah, well,” he says, voice even, back on familiar territory: equal parts aggrieved, dismayed, painfully fond. “Does what he wants. Always has, always will.”

They consider this a moment, and Stacker lets it pass in silence; he has nothing more to say to Herc about his son. Herc fidgets, then moves to Stacker’s left, backs of their hands just touching.

“And you, you’ll be looking for that pilot of yours come morning?”

"Raleigh Becket," Stacker says, remembering the cocksure young man, content in his brother’s shadow. He wonders what he has become now. "Last Mark-3 pilot still walking."

"He’s a good kid too,” Herc allows. “But are you sure he’s the best choice?”

“He’ll have to be," says Stacker grimly before he turns away from the ocean view. 

\--

“This will be more difficult than we’d planned for.”

Herc readjusts his sling, picks at the strap. He is only a few short moments away from setting his feet, straightening his shoulders, apologizing; he feels useless, laid up with a broken arm-- _now_ , of all times--when the end is so close.

Stacker resumes before he can start. “Now they know we’re coming,” he says quietly, and Herc clenches his jaw.

“Goddamn Geiszler,” he says, without real heat, only a grinding exhaustion.

“We take what we can get.” Stacker considers himself in the mirror. Does his mustache need a trim? Silly thing to be concerned about, at a time like this. But a necessary thing.

Herc's laugh is brittle. Stacker looks over at the touch on his waist, turns more as Herc shakes his head and leans closer.

"Isn’t that the truth," Herc says, and kisses him, desperate and fierce. Stacker slides his hand around the back of Herc’s neck and bites his lip.

Herc has his eyes shut, forehead creased, left arm wrapped hard around Stacker's waist. His hand slides up, following the line of Stacker's spine, and Stacker kisses him back, licks at his top lip, licks at the slight ridge at the roof of his mouth.

Herc groans, soft and familiar, then steps in closer, pulls him in almost hard enough to hurt. His hand tightens over Stacker's shoulder as though this, here, were enough to pull him back from the Breach.

Stacker's the one who disengages, but gently, or as gently as he can, thumb to jawline, fingertips to pulse. Herc makes as though to follow, then subsides. His grip eases on Stacker's shoulder, but he does not step away. They look at each other, breathing heavily. Herc looks away first, looks down, bows his head in until their faces nearly touch again, cheek to cheek. He sighs, and Stacker strokes his thumb along Herc's jaw. 

This is, Stacker thinks, the simplest thing about them, but certainly not the easiest.

"I should be suiting up, then," he says quietly, other hand at Herc's hip. "Only a few hours until the drop, if that."

Herc swallows hard, fingers winding behind Stacker's head. "I'll walk you down."

Neither of them move.

The day before, there had been no change. Herc was still the one who would have been sent down for this last run, the final swing. It was right somehow, Herc once said, to end things as they began: with a choice, a detonation, and his son beside him.

Herc, now. Hercules Hansen, a Ranger still in his prime, no medical ailments aside from a broken arm and a slight trend towards high blood pressure, no genetic surprises hidden in his family tree barring an allergy to cats and a predisposition to near-sightedness, neatly dodged by inheriting his dad's eyes and perfect vision. He'll live to a ripe old age. He might still have, if everything had gone according to Stacker’s plan. Not, he muses, that it would have worked anyway. Though this new one is not optimal, it is still better than a world overrun.

For him, anyway. In this, he does not presume for Hercules Hansen. Instead he reaches up, cups the back of Herc’s head, tries to draw him closer. Herc doesn't budge, doesn't shift at all. At times like these, Stacker knows, he becomes a man immovable.

Good. He will need it when he is marshal.

“I’ll make it back,” Stacker says to him, softly. He can picture it now. Dropping the payload. Destroying the Breach. Rising exhausted and triumphant from the ocean to resume dying slowly.

“I’ll be there when you need me,” he says. A suit in the office. A voice over the comm. A shared glance down a long hallway.

Herc sighs, close enough that Stacker can feel his suppressed shudder, then drops his head to Stacker's shoulder. Stacker resettles his hand, listens to the ragged sound of Herc's breathing.

“Those’re just words, Stack.” It’s muffled, Herc’s lips pressed against his neck. Herc's grip tightens, then he shakes his head, voice dropping, coming out strangled.

"We don’t need’em."

\--

Striker is hit.

Striker’s more than hit. He surveys the feeds, ignores the sparks.

This is not at all what he'd planned for, previously anticipating Typhoon to his right, Cherno to his left. Striker to point; Danger, at his back. His flanks are gone, rearguard giving way.

Center, though. Center holds fast. There is no retreat here, not from this.

He pulls off his helmet. He does not need to be interfaced with the younger Ranger Hansen’s mind for this. He does not insult Chuck by suggesting he take the escape pod, by remarking that he is still young, still has many more years ahead of him. Chuck says nothing to him, but there is a familiar, determined light in his eyes and his shoulders settle into a firm line. For all his faults, he is a soldier made, able and willing to accept this burden, more than a little proud to be here, despite it all. Stacker has seen many like him, over the years. He is humbled, he is grateful. He too is deeply, fiercely proud, but says nothing.

What’s there to say. They are proud of themselves; they are proud of each other. He nods to the man Chuck has become, keeps his head lowered for any last words over the comm. They do not look at each other, allowing a last private moment. Herc does not speak to his son. Herc does not speak to him.

There is no time for all the things they have not said to each other. Understandable. Regrettable. They have made their decisions, and he decides not to regret this one. He breathes out, shoulders relaxing, releasing fear of the countdown. There was a time when he could not have conceived of leaving the world alone, but now, he feels, it is only right.

'No man is an island,' he's heard, so many times, was never sure if he believed it. Never sure what it meant, because if there are islands, then there are bridges too. Mankind has its setbacks, but has always had a history of building; that he is standing here at all is testament to that. Here he stands, a last link of the chain in a stranglehold about the Pacific rim: a final, physical piece of humanity's determination and dreams.

He looks at the comm again for any further last words. Mako, Herc, Ranger Becket, Mister Choi, no one. Mako, ah, she's strong, she'll make it through. She'll get the job done and go on.

He has done his best. He has not yet done all that he can.

So he blinks away seawater and sweat, listens to the wail of a damaged system at its limits. He nods to the younger Ranger Hansen, does not say his goodbyes to the elder, then straightens his shoulders, looks forward. He will allow no last weakening of his resolve, especially when, at the last, Mako breaks in over the comm.

Mako's voice, yes, he will keep that as the last thing he hears. He has lived well, to have known the people he did.

He chooses to regret nothing, and presses the button.


End file.
